


Three Ways Regina Didn't Meet Robin Hood

by Ramasi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:31:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramasi/pseuds/Ramasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(In reverse order of them not happening.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Ways Regina Didn't Meet Robin Hood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katiemariie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/gifts).



Three Ways Regina Didn't Meet Robin Hood  
(In reverse order of them not happening.)

1.  
He's a carpenter.

She can't think if there's any particular reason for this. He's not one of the ones whose fate in this place she carefully crafted. She didn't know who he is. Perhaps there's a reason: she gave no thought to Jiminy but here he was dropped, right where he fits; or perhaps he's a spare, someone placed at random in an unfilled spot in her self-contained town. She would have liked to ask him: is this what he wanted when he was growing up? But he wouldn't have an answer.

She doesn't know, either, if he has any innate skill, or if the careful, assured way he handles his tools is the consequence of – he thinks – long training only. Perhaps she is no judge: she knows nothing about carpentry. All she knows is that his repairs in her house always hold, always fit her specifications; and she's not happy about that; it robs her of excuses to ask him back. She takes that step, invites him over for lasagne, feels incertitude for the first time since Henry came into her life (over eighteen years, and she never suspected that he was there), and makes small-talk, watches the careful, measured way he moves, rages at her inability to reach beyond and find the source of his pain. Something about the woman, no doubt, the mother of the child. It is a while before she ever hears him laugh.

By the time she sees the tattoo for the first time, it's too late: she's in love. She's barely even surprised: this is the world of her happy ending, and nothing from her past will hinder or constrain her. She invents tasks, and takes him out to a restaurant; he's guarded, and all she knows is that he keeps saying yes. And he's not afraid of her.

She could, of course: find him dreams, remake his life. Invent that they have been married for years. Henry likes him well enough: he carves wooden toys, he plays video games, he makes fireworks. When they're the same age, the two children become friends; then drift apart.

But how will she know it's real? He's never said anything; he remembers their past meetings; but perhaps in some ways the clock still rewinds for him every day, perhaps that's why he's still so careful.

She walks up and down her vault, stares at her last vestige of magic: if there was a way to break him free of the curse; if she could take him, take Henry, and leave Storybrooke far behind. She yells at Gold about it, to no avail. Leave behind her absolute control, her mansion and her vault and her father's grave. Her hand closes on the ring. She would.

He's coming for dinner tonight, again. She has that much.

 

2.

The man stops struggling as she appears. His cheek is bloody, and his whole left side, as he straightens a little, under the faltering hands that hold him, drags. Blood covers his clothes: how much his own, how much her guards, she can't tell, nor does she care.

"You can let him go," she snaps.

His eyes, one of them swollen, widen as, at her words, her guards fall back. She smiles at him: let him try. They are outside, and she can feel him ready to spring to action.

"Tell me," she says. "Where are the others?"

He draws a deep breath. No answer.

She grabs his chin. He hasn't washed, nor shaved, and his eyes are bloodshot as he looks up. He hasn't tried to run, she notes, nor does he struggle now; his hold is strained, resigned. He is used to pain, she thinks.

"Tell me," she repeats. Still no answer: he's rationing his forces. She pushes him back, straightens. "We have one of them, at least."

At a gesture from her, they bring up the villager, a scrawny man who might be forty, or sixty; he almost drops at her feet as they bring him. The thief looks down at him with no sign of recognition.

"I didn't know," the man whimpers.

Regina ignores him: she cares much more about the thief's reaction.

"We found ten gold pieces in his house. A day after the theft." She lifts her chin. "He doesn't even deny it: he says someone gave them to him."

"I did."

"You did?" she repeats: even as he stands bowed from the pain, the pride, the contempt, are obvious in his voice. It's a ridiculous notion, but in that moment she finds it hard to doubt him. "Where's the rest?"

He gestures: everywhere.

"You gave away my gold." My silver cups and jewellery; my magic scrolls and powders, she doesn't say, as if he might survive this and sell her secrets.

"None of it was yours."

"Whose, then?" Only now does she realise that she _has_ been thinking that he might survive this, for no reason at all. But she was wrong: she will rip out his heart, make him watch his accomplices die first. "Snow White's?"

He shrugs.

"I gave it back to people who mined and melted it. Whose crops and livestock you steal every day."

She has no immediate answer to that. He's not the first: there are others, too, who speak of the peaceful times before, the kind, virtuous king, his equally kind and virtuous daughter robbed of her throne. Snow White, who was born a princess, who betrayed her when she was going to run away with a stable boy! None of them know her like she does.

"You're wrong," she hisses.

It's only much later she even wonders why, if he isn't the first, she cared about proving him wrong.

 

3.

She crosses the threshold.

As she stands inside the room, cold night air still in her back, amidst the fumes of sweat, of overcooked meat, of leather and grime, she finds she is trembling from head to feet. Rumplestiltskin's words ring in her ear: _bring that simmering rage. It's all you have_.

All you will ever have.

Isn't it better to keep this as a could-have-been? To imagine that there might have been love and shared joy in her future, and that she _chose_ otherwise, than to _know_ those were things that could never again have been hers?

It's the ridicule of standing with the door in her hand that makes her move. Eyes turn at her passage: she wishes she had her riding clothes: she feels naked in this virginal white night dress. But she won't turn back now.

She stops in front of him, waits for him to look up with her breath held. She expects a shine on his face; a sense of immediate recognition, like something long lost and now found. Part of her expects Daniel.

Instead, he looks perfectly ordinary, a face she wouldn't have turned for in the street. His eyes, however, in this one brief moment, focus on her with an intensity, an air of attention that sees not a queen, not a sorceress, not a glorified nanny, only her. She feels exposed: if her feet weren't glued to the ground from fear, she might have run. Why did she make no plan, walked in like that on the word of a fairy?

(Later she finds out that with this soulful gaze he was examining the cloth of her dress, her pale skin and unblemished hands, and calculated the ransom she might fetch. He would never have harmed her; but he's a practical man.)

"Can I help you?" he says at last.

His voice is rough, but the tone gentle. She keeps herself from moving; heads have turned. She has nothing to fear: she's almost certain can put them all to sleep with a little effort; she can rip out and crush his heart in a gesture.

Somehow that doesn't make her feel any less nervous.

"You can," she says harshly, looking for countenance in pride. She looks down at him, his hands on the table, long calloused fingers, in rest in a way she's familiar with, ready for action: his whole body ready to spring. He has a bow laid out next to him, as well as a cloth bag that looks empty. "You're..." She pauses, long enough for him to notice. "A hunter."

He narrows his eyes at her. She wonders if he might guess who she is; how many of the people out here know her?

"No," he says. She didn't think so; she can guess at the truth. She doesn't mind. She wants to run, so perhaps this is exactly what she needs.

She grabs a chair: why be intimidated? If he is her true love, then she is his – that's how it's meant to work, isn't it? He doesn't know, but he has just as much reason to fear and hope as she does.

An odd wave of tenderness hits her.

"I need help," she declares briskly. "I want to hire you."

"No –" He stares at her, sitting across of him; _now_ he's worried. "I don't think you –"

She smiles the sweetest smile she has, the one she gave Snow on her wedding day. Snow, who will grow old in her castle, with her simpering father and her foolish adorers; Regina wishes her joy.

"Yes. _Listen_ to me."

His mouth snaps shut. It's a start.


End file.
